I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart
by elenwyn
Summary: She doesn't look at him, can't look at him. She can picture him, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on those awful, threadbare shoes of his, waiting patiently for her to act like everything's alright. But she can't look at him. Freddie x Bel from BBC's The Hour.


**A.N: **Well, it _has_ been a long time since I posted something. But yes, anyway. This is my first try at Freddie and Bel from 'The Hour'. They're perfect for each other and I'm completely in love with them.

**Warning: **Small spoilers for S2 as I've based this off of what's going to happen in the next series, but it's nothing that major.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hour, or Freddie, or Bel. Quotes at the beginning, end and in the title belong to E.E. Cummings. The dialogue between Freddie and Bel at the end actually comes from GoldEye in 1995, which was obviously not around in 1956, but it fit them, so I stuck it in there.

Enjoy!

* * *

_Here is the deepest secret nobody knows,  
(Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud,  
And the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows  
Higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)  
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. – _E.E Cummings

When her doorbell rings, Bel knows it can only be one person.

"Go _away_, Freddie!" She yells out, voice rather muffled by the fact she's lying face down on her bed with a mouth full of pillow.

The buzzing continues, then the knocking starts. Then the shouting.

"Moneypenny, if you don't let me in, I'll break the door down!"

Well, Bel thinks absentmindedly, it wouldn't really matter if he does. The lock is hanging on by a thread and one good shove would probably finish it off. But, no. Even if she does live in a dismal part of London, she doesn't really want her neighbours to think she's friends with a lunatic.

Though, in Freddie's case...

"Oh, for..." She forces herself up from her position, wipes her eyes and shuffles towards the entrance, tightening the silk belt of her dressing gown around her. She arrives at the door, pushes her hair behind her ear and opens it, an unamused expression on her face.

She won't let him win this time. She won't.

"About time." Freddie's face is a puzzle to her, just like everything else about him. He is attractive, in the right light, but it's almost as though he's put together to be as sharp as his intellect, all angles and messy and slapdash. His tie is crooked, his shirt is untucked and his hair needs combing; Bel resists the urge to run her fingers through it to flatten it down.

"I'm not talking to you." She retorts, arms folded.

He arches an eyebrow, gives that subtle, half-smirk of his and copies her movements.

"Right. And that's working really well for you so far."

The noise of frustration makes its way out of her throat before Bel can stop herself. She throws her hands in the air and stalks off in the direction of the kitchen, which Freddie takes as an invitation to step inside the flat and follow her, hands in his pockets and the same, half-amused expression on his face.

Bel exhales slowly and lets her palms rest on the cool of the sink counter. Freddie always manages to make her blood boil, even by just standing in front of her. Granted, she's got a genuine reason to be angry at him right now, but his mere presence sets her nerves on edge. The problem is, Bel is never quite sure if that's because of anger or...well, no, _that_ will not even enter her mind right now.

She doesn't look at him, _can't_ look at him. She can picture him, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on those awful, threadbare shoes of his, waiting patiently for her to act like everything's alright. But she can't look at him.

"You've got a new coffee table."

"Yes," She replies without thinking, "Two months ago." Too many drink stains on the last one. She really needs to take more care of her things. Or drink less.

Finally, Bel turns to face him. Her hands fall to her sides.

"What are you doing here, Freddie?"

"I thought that was obvious."

Bel's eyes flutter closed, one hand clenching around the silk of her dressing gown. "No, Freddie. Don't...just _don't_. You don't get to come here and just act like, like – "

"Like?" He looks almost bemused now, arms folding again and eyebrows creasing slightly. His gaze pierces her and Bel almost feels herself going red.

"Like this!" Her voice rises an octave and her frustration builds. Why can he never see? "Like this is just another one of our spats about something stupid. Like you didn't just swan off for six months without a word, without a phone-call, without a letter..."

Bel swallows, lowers her voice and her eyes to the floor.

"Without a goodbye."

The mood changes instantaneously, Bel can feel it. She forces herself to look up at him.

He has the decency to look sheepish, the first time Bel can honestly say she thinks Freddie almost feels guilty about something. She waits.

"I didn't think – "

"No," Bel answers, more coolly than she expects, "You never do, do you?"

With a sigh, she makes her way over to the sofa and sinks into it, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. Freddie's eyes follow her, but he stays where he is.

"I needed to get away. Everything had just...it was just too much. With Ruthie and Clarence..."

Ah, yes, Clarence. He'd been arrested about a week after Freddie was sacked and the whole, horrible truth had come out. A week after that, Bel had been offered her job back, under a new Head of News, but by that point Freddie had gone. She'd gone round to his place to find his father at the door, calmly telling her he'd gone 'travelling' and that he wasn't sure where he'd gone or when he'd be back.

And that had been the end of it.

Bel sighs again, shutting her eyes and pressing her chin on her knees. Freddie moves round the other side of the sofa to sit beside her, leaving a space between them.

"I am sorry, Bel."

Those words are said so quietly, Bel almost doesn't hear them. She _knows_ he's sorry, deeply sorry, knows that she's just as angry at herself for crying when she realised he wasn't coming back and for slapping him when he showed up at the studio earlier. Angry at not being able to cope without him. Angry that she can't quite tell him that. Not yet.

So she simply reaches out her hand across the expanse of sofa that lies between them, looking across at him from where her head still rests on her knees. He's won. He won the moment she laid eyes on him after so long, after he showed up in the middle of the night when she refused to pick up the phone.

Freddie takes it without missing a beat, curling his fingers around hers so that they're completely entangled, so that she can hardly tell where her hand ends and his begins.

Bel smiles; they are whole again, just like they should be. Just like they are meant to be. She closes the gap between them to settle her head on his lap, still grasping Freddie's hand. Her feet dangle over the arm of the sofa and Freddie's other hand brushes her hair back from her face.

He sighs, curling a strand of hair around his finger, "What would I ever do without you, Moneypenny?"

Bel lets out a small laugh, a welcome release from the tension building in her chest. She runs her fingers over Freddie's knuckles, knowing every bump, every crease.

"As far as I can remember, James, you've never had me."

Freddie's laughter reverberates from his chest and all around her, making her smile wider.

"Hope springs eternal."

_Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands._


End file.
